Songs of Air and Sea
by OldSFfan
Summary: Hawke and Michael go to a coffee house for an evening of folk music that turns into a life-threatening situation.


_Airwolf_ and her characters belong to the copyright holders. I appreciate the opportunity to let good characters continue playing after their original program has gone into stasis. The characters of the 4th season are appealing and I want to keep them around, too, but the transitional episode, "Blackjack," is a mess in many ways. It's series TV. I don't think main characters should die, although you can give them a very hard time.

But if Hawke didn't die, what did happen to him? I've been around academia too long – obviously, after he stops flying Airwolf, he goes to graduate school. Characters herein all were created by Bellisario, except for Hannah Steinberg and Karen Schiffman, who are my own creations.

As I wrote this, a demon, probably spawned in the Catskills in the 'Borscht Belt took over. You can't regard this as an addition to the canon, but it was fun to do.

Songs of Air and Sea

Chapter 1

Right on time – You could count on Michael. Hawke put the cello back in its stand and rose to greet his visitor. "Michael."

"Afternoon, Hawke." Even in blue jeans and gray sweater Michael managed to look elegant. But the clothes were a statement; Michael was off duty. Stringfellow Hawke, as far as the Firm was concerned, was always off duty now. He wasn't retired; he was still flying for Santini Air and he was completing coursework for his Masters degree in music. But Airwolf, an advanced gunship with rotors that Hawke had held hostage until the Firm found his brother who was missing in action in Vietnam, was finally someone else's ship. Giving it back to Michael and the Firm had enabled their friendship to flourish.

Hawke got beers out from the refrigerator. Both men sat on stools at the bar.

"Where's Le today?"

"He's on an overnight camping trip with his Boy Scout troop."

"Le a Boy Scout? He'll corrupt the other kids."

"Caitlin thought it would be good for him." Hawke sounded a little desperate.

Michael looked around the cabin. Hawke's immaculate practice and work space adjoined Le's middle school clutter. What Michael thought of as Hawke's space included the Stradivarius cello, keyboard, annotated sheet music, typewriter, and books. On the other side of an invisible line, there was Le's stack of middle school texts, algebra, earth science, social studies, and a beginner's piano book haphazardly perched on top of the stack. A jacket was tossed in a corner, next to a basketball. Knowing Hawke's preference for order, Michael asked, "How are you dealing with the preteen chaos?"

Hawke looked desperate again. "I asked Dom. Remember, he had the two of us. We were about the same age as Le Van when he adopted us. He said a very wise thing. He said, 'Save the fight for important things.' So as long as old sandwiches aren't rotting under piles of dirty laundry in his room, and as long as most of the mess stays out of shared spaces, I let it go."

"What's an important fight? I'm asking as a parent-to-be."

"As Caitlin reminded me, he's going to be thirteen next year. He's going to be old enough to get into real trouble. He's already got a 'girlfriend.'" Hawke winced.

Mentioning Caitlin reminded Michael of the reason for his afternoon visit. He took a deep breath and said, "Marella and I are going to get married."

"It's about time. She must be due soon."

He rubbed his mustache and admitted, "Four months, but twins usually come early, so I guess we'll have to hurry." He swiveled around to face Hawk. "String, Marella and I would like you to stand up with us when we get married."

Hawke slid off the stool and limped over to Michael, hand out. He wrapped his hands around Michael's and said, "I'd be honored."

"It will be a Jewish wedding. Small. We'll send invitations soon, to Cait and Dom, too, of course, and to Saint John."

"Really? Broken wine glass and everything? I didn't know Marella was Jewish. She's African-American…"

"Adopted. I probably never mentioned it, but my mother is Jewish. And while I don't practice, at least not often, I guess I'd have to regard myself as Jewish, too. My dog tags said so."

"Coldsmith-Briggs, the Third?" Hawke deliberately looked his tall, blonde friend up and down. "You don't look Jewish."

He laughed at the cliché. "My father wasn't. But my mother is Jewish. Her maiden name is Cohen."

Hawke said, so softly that Michael barely heard it, "Me too."

"I know," he said gently. "Remember we do a pretty thorough background check on our people."

"Saint John and I have a few pictures of them. Our mother's family name was Frankel. They lived in Czechoslovakia, but my mother was at Cambridge when the Germans took over Czechoslovakia, and she couldn't go home. She met my father when he was stationed in England during the War. He was probably baptized Episcopalian, but he didn't go to church. I don't think he ever talked about it, that I remember. As far as we know, none of my mother's family survived the war. Saint John remembers how Mom and Dad tried to get some information about her parents."

"Czechoslovakia had one of the worst Jewish survival rates; the Germans were there early, before the war even started. Jews didn't have a chance."

"That's what I've read. I don't think my mother wanted to think about it much. She gave us very British names. I wonder if she was trying to hide us in plain sight. We had no religious education. I remember sort of conventional Christmas celebrations, but nothing else. Dom took us to church on Sunday, mainly because he didn't want to leave us alone for those years right after our folks died. But he never pushed it. I guess we both grew up without any religion at all."

"I had a Bar Mitzvah," Michael admitted. "I can still read a little Hebrew."

"Have you used it in Israel?"

"They all speak English."

Hawke shrugged. "Well, my religious background or convictions aren't the point. Tell me the details, and I will be there at your wedding. I assume you'll supply the, the…" He gestured to his hair.

"Yarmulke. Of course. String, Marella and I would be honored if you would play a couple pieces on your cello, after the ceremony."

"Of course. Let's get together with Marella and figure out which pieces you'd like."

"By the way, when are you and Cait going to get married?"

Hawke grinned. "Some time after I've finished my masters degree. My MFA recital is scheduled for April, so after May. Cait's mother will want to give us a wedding, probably a bigger wedding than we'd like, since Cait has such a big family, but we'll keep the ceremony in California. I'll let you know."

"I stopped by Santini Air to see Dom. He told me that he expects us to bring the babies over to meet him."

"Dom is anxious for grandchildren. Your kids are going to have a spare grandfather." String smiled to himself for a moment, happiness in a face that had lived without for so long. He changed the subject. "I'm performing tonight. Do you want to come? It's not my usual sort of music; I'm subbing for a guitar player in an Irish band who broke his arm. We're playing at The Human Bean, the coffee house behind the campus. It's a two-night gig, last night and this evening. Bring Marella."

"She's on duty at the hospital all night. At least this is the last month of her residency. I hate going home to an empty house, now that we're living together." Michael sounded plaintive. "I'll meet you there. When does it start?"

"Two bands. The first band starts at eight o'clock. We'll come on at nine-thirty. The first band is very interesting, though. Odd name: Hen Frigate; whatever that is. But they signed up months ago for this weekend. The manager was pleased to get them, and I enjoyed their performance last night. We sat around afterwards and sang folksongs for a couple hours."

Michael smiled "Hen Frigate. I haven't heard that phrase for years. Come to think of it, I probably never heard it, just read it in a history of the Great Age of Sail. A sailing ship with the captain's wife aboard was called a 'hen frigate.' I assume your warm-up band consists of women singing sea music? This evening we two old pilots can listen to songs of the sea. I am looking forward to it."

Chapter 2

The coffee house was still half empty when Michael joined Hawke at the table in the corner reserved for family and friends of the performers. Two women in grayish flannel shirts and skirts with pockets were drinking tea. Hawke introduced them, all stood to shake hands. "Michael, meet the members of Hen Frigate. Hannah Steinberg."

"Ms. Steinberg." Michael took the offered hand of a bright-eyed, gray-haired woman who could not have been more than five feet tall.

"And Karen Schiffman." He shook hands with the much taller, slender and dark-haired woman.

"Ladies, Michael Coldsmith-Briggs, III."

Michael smiled his meltingly beautiful smile and the women smiled back as if under his command. Hawke suppressed a laugh. "Hawke told me about your jam session after the performance last night, and I'm sorry I missed it. It sounds like evenings in the dorm in college."

"It's one of the pleasures of touring like this, getting to sit around and swap songs afterwards. We can't do it tonight, we both fly home tomorrow," the taller one, Karen, said. "My kids are complaining about their father's cooking, I haven't finished my Chanukah and holiday shopping, and it's the end of the semester. I'll be grading papers all the way back to Providence."

"Right. I've got final exams to write, and a grant proposal due next Friday," groaned the older woman.

"You're music teachers?" Michael asked.

"No. I'm an oceanographer and Hannah is a geologist."

Hannah chuckled. "We were in San Francisco for the American Geophysical Union's Fall Meeting. We look for venues to play when we go to a meeting, individually or together, so we gave a concert at the National Maritime Museum in San Francisco, one of my favorite places for sea shanties, on the deck of the _Balclutha_. And since I wanted to visit my family in Los Angeles while we were on the west coast, we found an open venue here."

"Oceanographer. Geologist. Great day jobs," Michael observed.

"Best jobs in the world." Hannah looked at her watch. "Good second job too. Speaking of which, Karen, let's go tune up."

"Okay. Nice meeting you." They scooped up their tea cups and headed for the back room.

"Happy warriors," Hawke commented. "Cait came last night. Dr. Steinberg's brother and sister-in-law stayed around after the performances, along with a few audience members, and we sang for hours. I felt like I was back in college too, Irish rebel songs, Kingston Trio songs, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul and Mary, and by midnight, Pete Seeger, anti-war songs and labor songs."

"Socialist hippies?" Michael muttered, waggling his eyebrows.

"Michael, they're folksingers," Hawke said, realized he was being teased, scowled, then sat back, laughing. "Don't have them arrested, will you, at least not until they've finished singing?"

"It's a deal."

The women led the audience on a sea voyage, with tight vocal harmonies and interesting instrumental accompaniments. The taller one, Karen, played guitar and sang a lilting soprano. Hannah played a beautifully ornamented concertina to accompany her clear alto. The two traded off the role of Shantyman, leading the singing. Since he was hearing the songs for the second time, Hawke concentrated on the words: the uncomfortable trip of the Cape Horn sailor in "Paddy, Lay Back," the silly lyrics of the Dead Horse ceremony, the doomed voyage of the Confederate blockade runner in "Roll, Alabama Roll," or the recurring theme that seemed to sum it all up, "Times are hard and the wages low/It's time for us to roll and go."

At midpoint in the set, Hannah stepped forward to explain the role of the Shantyman during the Great Age of Sail. The Shantyman was an experienced sailor with a big voice who led the singing in order to coordinate the heavy work on a ship. Shanties were work songs, used either to haul lines or push the capstan or the pumps. She taught the audience how to time short hauls with a chorus of "Haul Away, Joe."

Joyous homeward bound songs concluded the voyage. Hawke joined in on the choruses, counting on the audience's full-voiced singing to cover his accurate but rough tenor that had been ruined by aircraft fumes, thin air and the smoke from the bomb that had nearly ended his and Dom's flying career. Michael looked relaxed and happy and sang along in a surprisingly good, if rusty, baritone. The ladies wrapped up their set with "Rolling Home" and a rousing version of "Leave Her Johnny." When they concluded with the magnificent "Seaman's Hymn," the audience rose, and sang along in four-part harmony.

The fans of sea music in the audience started gathering their belongings and paying for their beer, wine and coffee, while followers of Irish music started filtering into the room looking for seats. The women came out from the back room with their jackets and instruments, smiling and a little weary, to sit at the table. They spread out business cards and copies of their audio cassette titled _Liverpool Judies_, and quickly sold out. Other members of Hawke's band had been filling up the empty chairs around the table and after saying hello to Karen and Hannah, they headed back stage. "Are you staying for Hawke's set?" Michael asked.

Hannah set her tea cup down and leaned back contentedly. "You bet. I love Irish music, and I'm prolonging the last minutes of my vacation."

"That makes two of us," Karen added. "Besides, we're sharing the rental car."

"What university?" Michael asked.

"I'm at Columbia University, Lamont Doherty Earth Observatory," Hannah said.

"University of Rhode Island," Karen added.

Hawke said, "Last night, Dr. Schiffman mentioned that she was an officer in the Coast Guard Reserve."

Hawke watched Michael sit up at that, suddenly more than interested. "And Dr. Steinberg?" he asked.

"I do some of my work on research vessels, but no, I'm not in the Coast Guard."

"What do you do, Mr. Briggs?" Hannah asked.

Michael smiled as he said, "I work for the Federal government."

Polite nods. The three of them had discussed the music performance program at University of Southern California the evening before, and once the two professors heard Hawke was a graduate student, they seemed comfortable with him in that context. Karen had been very interested when he had mentioned flying helicopters, but they soon returned the discussion to his graduate studies. Ah, academics. Hawke stood up and slid the strap of his guitar bag over his shoulder. "Michael, ladies, I've got to tune up." He followed the rest of the band back stage.

Hawke enjoyed his first public foray into Irish folk music. As the band worked through a set of jigs and reels, Irish dancers from the audience got up to perform in any open place on the floor. The bodhran player's high, clear tenor soared on several ballads. Immersed in flying, Hawke had finished his major in aeronautical engineering after Viet Nam. Nonetheless, he had found time to minor in music. His graduate music studies felt like the completion of unfinished business or a homecoming; after years of playing cello for himself in the cabin, he relished making music with other musicians. He stood in the back of the group behind a microphone positioned to catch his guitar but not his voice. The band finished the set with a version of "O'Carolan's Farewell to Music," led by the group's very able Irish harpist. Hawke carefully put the guitar back in its canvas carrying bag and slung it over his back, freeing a hand for his cane. The audience was clearing out. Michael and both of the members of Hen Frigate were waiting for him.

"Great stuff. I really enjoyed it," Karen said.

"If you are ever in New York or New England, look us up," Hannah said. "We're easy to find through our universities, but here's a card. "Mr. Hawke, I gather you're more likely to be with a string quartet than an Irish band?" She fished a business card out of her pocket that said "Hen Frigate," with a Post Office box and a phone number and handed it to Hawke. She turned to Michael as he got to his feet. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Briggs."

The four strolled out through the back door of the coffee shop, where the cars were parked. Hawke had placed his guitar in the trunk of the leased sedan he was using to get around the city. He helped the women stow their instruments in the trunk of their rental car. Something was wrong. Hawke stiffened. "Michael," he started to say, when a van roared around the corner and stopped in front of him. From somewhere between two buildings a rush of bodies burst out. He was fighting back, using his cane as a weapon, trying to make sense of it. A large man in dark clothes grabbed Hannah around the waist and simply threw her into the van while she struggled furiously. Michael shouted and then was silent. Hawke heard Karen's cry. Then something hit him over the back of the head and he could not fight the darkness.

Chapter 3

Hawke lay retching as he came around. His hands were bound behind him so he could only squirm to lift himself away from the puddle. His head pounded and the room rocked beneath him. A voice behind him whispered, "Hawke. Hawke." More urgently, "Stringfellow."

"Yeah, Michael."

"Try to slide over here."

Hawke started to drift back into the pain-free space, but Michael's voice pulled him back. "Come on, buddy, I need your help."

He realized that some of the rocking motion was the floor, not his disorientation. "On a boat?"

"Yes."

Hawke wriggled closer to Michael, who turned his back to Hawke and started to work on the knots at his wrists with a blade concealed in his watch. "Ladies, any progress? Michael asked."

"Getting there."

Hawke shook his suddenly loosened wrists free, rolled over and had Michael free in a moment. Michael sat up and pulled Hawke to his side. "Let me see your head." Hawke flinched away from his probing fingers. "The bleeding's stopped. Concussion. They darted me and Dr. Schiffman. Dr. Steinberg, how long were we unconscious?"

"You were all out at least an hour."

"Can you function?" Michael asked Hawke.

"I'll have to. See to the women." He inhaled through his mouth, trying to keep from throwing up again, his headache threatening to tear his head apart. Michael climbed to his feet facing the two women and quickly dispatched the ropes on their wrists.

Hawke looked around the room. The cabin, he amended, noticing a porthole. There was barely enough room for the two men on the floor. The women sat side by side on the bunk. It was dark outside the porthole, probably after midnight from Dr. Steinberg's estimate of how long they had been unconscious. The rocking seemed to be intensifying, making him nauseous again and he gulped air to fight it. "Dr. Steinberg, did you see how many of them there are?"

"Four jumped us. I've seen two on the boat, but there are probably more."

An explosion behind one of the cabin walls and below shook everything.

"I think they are scuttling the boat," Karen's voice incredulous.

"Why go to the trouble to drag us out to a sinking boat?" Hawke asked, then pinched his forehead against the pounding behind it. "Because someone is coming to get us." He climbed slowly to his feet, hanging onto the wall.

The cabin door was flung open. A large man in a red windbreaker holding a gun walked in and saw that they had gotten out of their bonds. "Put your hands up. Don't try anything. Now, up." He gestured them toward the door, backed out away from them. He kept a professional distance from Hawke and Briggs. Hawke stumbled on the bulkhead at the top of the narrow stairs and Briggs moved to help him. "Keep your hands up."

"He's hurt."

"I don't care. Move."

The four clustered on the wet, lurching deck. It was hard to keep their footing. Spray was bursting over one side. The boat was creaking loudly. In the narrow perimeter of the boat's lights Hawke could see a choppy sea with waves beating against the sides. The boat was wallowing in the trough of the waves. He could not hear any engine noise. Looking around cautiously, Hawke counted at least two gunmen, but had no way to guess how many more were on the boat. Michael startled Hawke with the shout, "Professor, what's wrong?" Hawke jerked back to his companions. Hannah's eyes widened and she fell back against the metal wall of the bridge, clutching her left shoulder. He stepped toward her but the taller gunman blocked him.

"I think I'm having a heart attack," she said, gasping. She dropped her head back with eyes closed and started to slide down.

"For God's sake, let me help her," Michael demanded.

The other gunman, a man of about Hawke's height but heavier, wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt and jeans, moved toward her, moving the gun side to side. Hannah groaned and went limp. He bent over her.

Hannah brought her feet up and pushed off from the bulkhead, driving them into the gunman's stomach. He was forced back a step and in the confusion, Michael used both hands to smash the back of his neck and grab his gun. Hawke took advantage of the distraction to direct a massive punch to the face of the taller gunman, who fell backward. Michael swung the gun onto the gunman's head and he lay quiet on the rolling deck. Hawke clutched his bruised knuckles, the pain distracting him temporarily from the pounding in his head.

"Sorry for jeopardizing you, Professor, but you look less threatening than the rest of us, and with your gray hair, I thought they'd believe you were having a coronary. You picked up on that cue very well," Michael said. He squatted beside Hannah and touched the bruise on her cheek, "But you were supposed to stay down and out of the way." The beautiful smile again. "Are you all right?"

"Sure. Sure… Lucky I took that self-defense class for women faculty." She touched the bruise. "I've never been hit before." Michael reached down and helped her stand.

Karen stepped forward, holding the other gun. "There should be at least two other gunmen, but we need to find out what that explosion was." She turned to Hannah. "We need to get off a Mayday. Turn on the emergency beacon if you can. Check the navigation instruments to get a position, and then start looking for life rafts and survival suits. It would be helpful to find out what the name of this boat is. Mr. Hawke, Mr. Briggs, am I wrong or do you two have some experience with this sort of thing?"

"We do."

"Then leave the boat to Hannah and me and you can look after protecting us."

"Yes, Ma'am," Michael agreed. "We have to get off this boat, because these people have friends who are coming to get us, soon, if they were in the process of scuttling it. Hawke, let's secure these two. Dr. Schiffman, if you'd cover us?" He handed the pistol to Karen, grip first. She held the gun in a practiced grip on the two downed men while Hawke frisked them methodically and retrieved a second pistol. Michael tied them thoroughly with rope connected to a life ring and attached that to the rail. "Let's stay together until we are sure we've secured the boat." Karen nodded and handed her gun to Hawke. "Is this the only passage to the engine room or cabins?" he asked Karen.

"Probably."

"Good." The two men separated, heading for the stairs to the lower deck. Hawke gestured the women to walk behind him. The first door on the right led to the galley and lounge. The door was thrown open, Michael ready to spray the room with gunfire while Hawke covered the hallway. It was empty. The first door on the left, treated the same way, was the cabin in which they had been held. A third and fourth cabin also were empty. They moved down the passageway to the last door. "Engine room?" he asked Karen in a whisper. She nodded. The door was flung open. A gunman standing on the gangway wheeled in surprise, an automatic pistol leveled at the four of them. Seeing the two guns pointed at his head, he dropped the pistol and raised his hands. A second man standing by the diesel engine raised his pistol. Hawke and Michael both aimed at him. "One of us will kill you. Put it down easy." He shrugged and set the pistol down on the stairs and raised his hands too. They looked like more hired muscle, Hawke thought.

"Commander, can you tell us what's the status of the engine?" Michael asked. He gestured their prisoners to climb the stair and stand facing the passageway wall while Karen edged past them. She spent a moment inspecting the diesel power plant. She came back up the stairs with shoes squelching with water, oil and diesel fuel and with strain twisting her face.

"No good. It looks like they blew up part of it. There's at least a foot of water down there and it's coming in from more than one spot. I think this boat is going to sink, and soon. The lights are on batteries." Hawke turned around and led the group with their prisoners back to the upper deck, Michael bringing up the rear.

"Now, let's see if we can get some help." Hannah and Karen ran to the bridge with the men following with their new prisoners.

"Wait," Hawke called, and kicked open the door of the bridge. He wheeled through the perimeter of the room, pistol in front of him. No one was there. Broken glass littered the floor.

"Oy vay," Hannah sighed. "They broke the emergency beacon. Let's see if anything is working." The radio appeared to have been hit with something. A locker by the captain's chair held a flashlight. She grabbed it and slid under the console, tweaked a couple wires, but the radio was silent. She got back to her feet.

"I'm an aircraft mechanic. Let me," Hawke said. The sound of the ocean and the wind was rising. To Hawke's alarm, the lights went out but an emergency light came on.

Hannah grabbed a tool kit from the same locker and handed it to him. "I'll hold the light for you." He slid under the console while she squatted, trying to angle the flashlight beam to hit where he was working. The radio started whistling, then static. Hannah, stood, trying to shake the pieces of glass off of her skirt. She fiddled with a dial until the channel cleared. Hawke crawled back to his feet, but clutched the edge of the console as his head whirled.

Karen was examining the rest of the console. "OK. I know where we are," she said. "We aren't too far off shore. We've got to get running lights on. I'd hate to get run down by a ship in the middle of all this. Is there anything up here with the name of the boat?" Karen walked back out to the door, hanging onto the door frame, and found the name _Sonia Claire_ stenciled on the paint by the wheelhouse door. Hannah handed the microphone to her.

"Mayday, Mayday, this is the fishing vessel _Sonia Claire_."

"This is the Port of Los Angeles Coast Guard station. What is the nature of your emergency, _Sonia Claire_?"

"I am Commander Karen Schiffman, Coast Guard Reserve. Stick with me, this is complicated. I was abducted along with three companions a few hours ago from near the USC campus. We were taken to the _Sonia Claire_ where we have taken control and neutralized the kidnappers. They were in the process of scuttling the boat when we stopped them, but it is too late. We are taking on water and have only emergency lights. We're getting knocked around by the waves. And we think the friends of the people who took us are coming to get them and us. Our emergency beacon is broken but here are our coordinates." she read their location off the screen.

"Please wait, Commander." There was a pause, then the voice came back, "A cutter is within fifteen minutes of your position and is on the way. We are alerting nearby shipping and scrambling some rescue choppers. We should be able to get you some quicker help from a commercial vessel if necessary."

Michael stepped forward. "May I speak?" he asked. Karen handed him the microphone. "I am one of Commander Schiffman's party." he said, "Please call the following number, give them the call sign 'Angel One,' then let me speak to them." He recited a phone number, then repeated it.

"Hold on, sir."

A pause. Then a female voice, "Archangel, this is Sharon."

"Sharon, we are in a potential hostage situation. And we're on a sinking boat in intensifying weather not too far offshore. Obtain our position from the Coast Guard dispatcher when I'm finished. Fly us some cover ASAP."

"Yes, sir," the female voice said. Another pause, then the voice of the Coast Guard dispatcher came back on. "Commander, we will keep you on the radio until you are picked up."

Karen turned to Michael. "Who are you?"

Hawke, standing just outside the door and covering the four bound men, chuckled. Michael said, carefully, "I am Deputy Director of a branch of the C.I.A. It would not be unreasonable to think that I was the target of the abduction."

"Then why did they take Mr. Hawke?"

"He is an old associate, now retired. "The word may not be out about his retirement."

"Why Hannah and me?"

"I suspect because they were told not to leave any witnesses or bodies, and didn't know what else to do with you."

The boat suddenly rocked, another explosion sounded from the engine room, and the boat listed further to port and began to settle by the stern. Waves breaking over the side drenched the four bound men sitting on the deck. "Hannah, life raft!" Karen shouted. Both women ran for the stern of the vessel along the narrow, open passageway by the wheelhouse. A check of the cabinets along the rail located life vests and two survival suits. Hannah grabbed them and followed Karen back to the bridge. She tossed them to Michael, skirted the prisoners, then ran toward the bow of the vessel.

"Michael, if we are short places in a life raft, I don't want to give up my place for any of them." Hawke gestured toward their adversaries with a jerk of his chin.

"Now, there's the Hawke I know," Michael said fondly.

Near the bow, Hannah opened one locker after another. The boat was nearly stripped when it was bought or stolen by whoever was responsible for their abduction. She found three more life vests, but there was no sign of a raft. A wave crashed over the bow and knocked her against a hatch. Karen grabbed her and helped her back to her feet. She followed Karen back to the bridge, both of them dripping and shivering.

"No life raft," Karen reported.

"I think we're OK," Hawke said, pointing at helicopters emerging from the clouds a few miles off the bow. "The cavalry is coming."

Karen turned to look. "The Coast Guard prefers not to be called 'the cavalry.'"

Hawke ignored the gibe. "They may have to fight it out." A headlight, apparently from speeding boat, could just be seen heading their way beyond the heaving waves crashing over the stern. Bullets struck the wall of the bridge. "Everybody, get down." Hawke dragged Hannah down to the deck. Michael threw himself down taking Karen with him next to the door. They wriggled into life vests. Their captives were trying to duck despite being tied to rings on the rail.

All were startled by the blasting horn of a ship. Above the rail, Hawke could see an enormous container ship pass between the oncoming speedboat and their position. The wake rocked them and the boat settled lower by the bow. "There are two survival suits," Hannah said. "Mr. Hawke, you've got a concussion. You should get into one, if either one fits."

"I'd rather you two got into them," Hawke told her. He raised his head, listening to something. "Airwolf," he said. "It will be all right."

A strange, black helicopter with a white underside and a howling roar swooped down to hover over the sinking boat. The voice on the loudspeaker said, "Hang in there, String. The Coast Guard's boarding that speedboat right now. Air-sea rescue choppers are right behind us." It was hard to pick his words out through the roar of the helicopter, and the howling winds and waves.

"Thanks for the cover, Sinj," Hawke shouted.

"Well, Mike and I'll keep any bogies off, but we have to get out of the way and out of sight. See you on shore."

"My brother's flying that ship," Hawke explained. He had to shout to be heard.

The sound of the wind was drowned out in the shriek of the black helicopter as it rose straight up until it was lost in the dark sky. A much more conventional Coast Guard air sea rescue helicopter settled hovering above the tossing boat. Another one waited off to its left. "Sikorskys," Hawke observed.

A rescue diver hanging on to the outside of a swaying harness descended and with impressive timing dropped to the rocking deck. Once down, he used a cable to hang on to the rope and harness. "Commander Schiffman?" he shouted.

"Here," Karen said. They exchanged salutes. She produced her Coast Guard identification card from the wallet in her skirt pocket. After a quick conference, she pointed at Hawke. "He has a concussion. He goes first, make sure he's strapped in. Next, send her." She pointed to Hannah. Indicating the soaked, miserable-looking men sitting on the deck with their hands tied, she said, "Our bad guys; please take custody of them. This boat is sinking under our feet. Let's get off before it goes down." She thanked the dispatcher on the radio and disconnected the call. Hawke and Hannah were winched up to the helicopter, then Michael. Once he was pulled into the helicopter, Karen accepted assistance to get into the harness and was on her way up.

Safely in the hold of the chopper with a warm blanket around his shoulders and a medic tending to his head, Hawke said, "Michael."

"What, Hawke?"

"If I ever, ever talk about taking a sea cruise, just shoot me."

Chapter 4

Hawke was grateful to be on dry, stable ground, even though it seemed to be heaving around him. His headache pounded until he could do little but shiver in his wet clothes. He sat in a plastic chair in the waiting room of the Firm clinic and rested his head in his arms on his knees. Michael arranged clean-up and sent someone to collect their cars from behind the coffee house. The F.B.I. picked up the men who had held them on the boat. Hannah's groggy brother, roused from sleep, met them in the waiting room with dry clothing. Hawke's fiancé, Caitlin, set next to him, a hand on his arm, looking worried. Michael's fiancé, Marella, a tall, striking, and very pregnant African-American physician in scrubs, joined them.

Hawke was persuaded to stay the rest of the night for observation. It was a measure of how severe his headache was that he allowed the emergency room physician to admit him, but insisted on the promise of a morning release. "Why am I the only one with a concussion," he complained, from the gurney before he was carried off to his room.

"They darted Dr. Schiffman and me with a tranquilizer," Michael said. "Sort of like a game warden with an elephant." Hawke snorted, and winced. "Apparently you wouldn't hold still long enough for them to do it to you, so they just whacked you over the head. More likely, they only had two darts and they chose to use the second on Dr. Schiffman. You were being chivalrous, albeit not deliberately. Dr. Steinberg is the smallest of us, so they just tossed her into the van."

"Made me feel like a sack of potatoes," Hannah muttered.

"Yes, but it turns out turns out they underestimated you."

All four agreed to meet at Michael's office for a debriefing, in early afternoon. Michael promised to fly Hannah and Karen home in one of the Firm's jets following the meeting. Michael took Hannah aside before her brother took her and Karen home to get some sleep. "Dr. Schiffman is going home to her family. You live alone, don't you?"

"Yes. But good friends are nearby."

"Good, but may I recommend one session with a counselor? I speak from experience. Even though we won, it was a traumatic experience." He reached into his pocket and produced a business card. "Call my office. Don't put it off, do it this week, and let us connect you to a counselor in the New York area with the security clearance to talk about it with you. One visit, on the house, so to speak. You'll find that it will help."

She accepted the card. "Thank you. You're the first spy I've met, I think."

"But how would you know?"

Chapter 5

The atmosphere in the conference room at Knightsbridge that afternoon was jolly, a little giddy with relief, helped along by sandwiches, coffee, cookies, and a feeling of shared triumph. Stringfellow Hawke had a dressing on the back of his head and held his head very still. Saint John Hawke, his tall, solemn-faced brother, sat on his left, Caitlin O'Shannessy on his right. Michael conducted the meeting. Marella sitting by his side, was in violet scrubs. Michael was dressed in a blindingly white suit, vest, tie, shirt, and even white shoes. When Marella reached for a cookie, Hannah could see the impressive white diamond in her white gold engagement ring. Michael turned to Saint John. "I gather you were coming home from a mission? You got to us awfully quickly last night."

"We were on the way to the hangar when we heard from your office."

"Well, we are grateful." He turned to Karen and Hannah. "You know, Hawke and I - sorry Saint John, but I've been calling your brother Hawke so long that I can't seem to shake the habit - as I said, Stringfellow and I have been getting out of tricky situations for a long time, but neither of us are sailors." He turned to face the two women directly. "Commander Schiffman, Dr. Steinberg, we might have escaped last night, but it would have been a lot more complicated. You two changed the balance and got us out with minimal damage. Thank you."

"It certainly was an odd coincidence that we were kidnapped with you," Hannah said. She looked troubled. "But yes, together we seemed to have been lucky, or made our luck."

"Should we be concerned about our security or our family's safety when we get home?" Karen asked.

"The people we captured on the speedboat have been giving us some interesting answers. This entire incident stems from my division's break-up of a Colombian drug cartel last year. It was revenge, complicated, but clumsy. Hawke was a case of mistaken identity, since his brother participated in the action. You both were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I have no indication that the people we arrested have any idea who you are. However, we will assign some discreet security to you for a few weeks to be sure. We will also have to strengthen our own security details for the time being, until we are sure that the threat is neutralized. I think we can arrange for the whole mess to stay out of court, so you won't have to testify against them."

Michael took a deep breath and was the perfect host again. "Dr. Steinberg, you said you weren't in the Coast Guard, but you obviously know your way around boats. All from work on research vessels?"

"Just call me Hannah. We should have gotten past 'Dr. Steinberg' long before they started shooting at us last night. I've been around research vessels for so long that I started to take classes just to satisfy my curiosity. I qualified for third mate's papers several years ago, and last year finished the time required for my second mate's papers. I've been threatening to put it after my academic qualifications on my _vitae_."

"How long have you two been singing together, Dr. Schiffman?"

"Call me Karen, please. We met ten years ago aboard Pete Seeger's Sloop _Clearwater_. We've been singing together when we can since then, and we still usually put in a week on the _Clearwater_ in June or July, after classes end, partly as crew, partly leading some of the singing."

Saint John said to his brother, "I thought music was supposed to be safer than…what you were doing before. Maybe it's your playmates," he said pointedly, looking at Michael. "You might as well come back and work for us."

"It's folk music, Sinj. Must be dangerous. I'm gonna switch to klezmer."

"A Strad in a klezmer band?" his brother asked. "It would work better if you took up the clarinet."

More laughing, and cookies. "After all these cookies, I won't feel like making potato latkes for my family," Karen said, reaching for another cookie.

"When does Chanukah start?" Michael asked.

"It started last Thursday. I'll be grading papers while grating potatoes," Karen said.

"Just don't grade the potatoes and grate the papers," Saint John suggested.

Michael turned to the pregnant woman sitting next to him, expression transformed. "It's been a long time since I've lit the candles. Shall we?"

"I think I know which box I packed my menorah in" she promised. "Hawke, Saint John, Caitlin, we'll invite you over for potato pancakes, shall we say, next Thursday evening? It's the last night of Chanukah and all the candles on the menorah will be lit. Around 6:00? Bring Dom and Jo too." She laughed. "I'll have to call my mother to ask for the recipe."

The brothers and Caitlin looked at each other. "Sounds wonderful. We'll bring the wine.

"Not Manischewitz," String murmured.

"So ladies, what shall we take away from this peculiar end to an evening of music," Michael asked.

"How about, 'Don't mess with professors,'" Hawke offered.

"Ah, Grasshopper," Hannah said kindly. "Your graduate committee is training you properly."

He winced.

"Don't mess with the ladies," Michael suggested.

"Always a sound policy," Cait agreed.

"How about, "Don't mess with Jewish mothers," Hawke tried again.

"Good idea," Marella murmured, touching her round stomach.

"Absolutely," Karen concurred.

"I am not a mother," Hannah said.

"Don't mess with earth scientists?" Michael suggested.

"I am an ocean scientist," Karen said primly.

"Well, then?"

Hannah and Karen looked at each other, then said together, "Don't mess with the Shantyman!"


End file.
